by L. A. Banks
“The Vampires . . . those bastards are always involved in anything that goes against us,” a voice grumbled from the now riveted group.
“Originally they agreed to steal it because it would keep more Werewolves from being made through the faulty human experimentation process. The last thing they wanted was for Werewolf ranks to increase—infected or otherwise. The humans see us all the same. But a human general got nervous and ordered a vaccine to be created instead. The vaccine ultimately would have been put in human drinking water supplies as a delivery agent in Werewolf hot zones, to prevent infections within the human population.”
“Seems like we need to pay this general a visit,” the leader snarled.
“Too late,” Hunter said calmly. “Vampires already ripped off his face.”
The pack leader folded his arms over his barrel chest. “And why would one of them do that?” He glanced around at his pack members and chuckled, garnering hyenalike laughter from the group again. “Should have followed my first mind. That boy is high.”
“The Vampires thwarted the effort because the residue left in human blood would taint it . . . make it taste very close to the Shadow Wolf blend that makes them sick as dogs.”
All laughter died away. Vindicated, Hunter allowed his gaze to sweep the group.
“That’s when the second problem occurred.”
This time there was no interruption to Hunter’s story or laughter.
“Speak!” the pack leader commanded, growing restless and beginning to pace.
“A group of rogue Shadow Wolves found out that if they shot up with the toxin, it worked like steroids. Then they double-crossed the Vampires and even their own pack alphas. It bulked them up, turned betas into super alphas—”
“Bullshit!”
“No, truth!” Hunter yelled back. “The toxin the humans had was not straight virus like they’d get from a bite or a scratch. It had been genetically altered to insert itself into the human DNA spiral and embed there to give a human soldier all the strongest traits of the Werewolf species. Within the Shadow Wolf, there’s the human element it can cling to. The problem is that it has a nasty side effect on the inner wolf . . . that cannot control its shifts, can’t resist the taste of both human and Werewolf flesh. It makes the Were-Shadows larger, more lethal, and able to walk in both the Shadow lands and soon, I’m sure, they can come through your demon doors. That’s what’s been hunting and eating uninfected Werewolves on the other side of the doors. So, if you see them coming beyond the demon doors—attack. If you don’t go after the infected Shadows, one night you’ll find yourself trapped and being slaughtered within your own feeding dens.”
The pack leader dropped down on all fours and slammed his fist into the pile of gore beneath him. “The Vampires started this travesty to wipe us out—then we shall massacre them! We cannot eat in our own territories under a full moon because of them, but have to quickly steal bodies and bring them behind demon doors to gorge until the next full moon phase . . . all because of them? Not only are our uninfected brothers hunting us in the ongoing civil war, as are the normal Shadow Wolves, now you are saying you’ve witnessed an even stronger predator? Now our demon doors are in danger of being breached? How do you know all of this?”
“I learned what I needed to know when I went after a smaller female hybrid that was feeding in my yard. She was almost stronger than me, even at a head shorter. I had to know why and how. . . . She told all as I slowly convinced her that the torture would stop if she spoke quickly.”
Hunter smiled a sinister smile, allowing the misdirected truth to take root in the pack leader’s psyche. He watched him sniff the air for a lie, but Hunter had not lied, just conveniently rewoven the truth. Sasha was a hybrid of sorts, being both Shadow Wolf and human. They actually had shared critical information, and she had fed in his hunting grounds. And indeed he had pleasantly tortured her and she’d willingly told him by her actions all he’d ever wanted to know . . . that she loved him. The pack leader could read into it what he wanted.
The important thing was to get the three main threats to human existence to help cancel each other out. If the Vampires, infected Shadow Wolves, and infected Werewolves were at each others’ throats, then it would make the cleanup job easier for the greatly weakened Shadow packs, and most certainly any human military forces that deemed to get involved.
“Haven’t seen you around these bayou doors,” the pack leader finally said, flinging a wet human leg toward Hunter, who caught it with one hand.
“I’m not from around here,” Hunter replied, allowing the sickening appendage to dangle at his side. “I was made in the Midwest . . . got chased this way. Something’s converging on New Orleans.”
“Take care of his needs,” the pack leader ordered the female that had initially tried to feed Hunter. “I could use a good field general, with what’s about to go down.”
She smiled and lowered her head, skulking forward. Hunter tossed the leg to her, which he knew was an ultimate act of chivalry among Werewolves. She caught it with a feral snap of her strong jaws.
The pack leader laughed. “The whole leg? When’s the last time your mangy ass has been laid?”
Hunter returned a noncommittal half-smile and winked at the feeding female. “Save me some for later. My grandfather got injured in the last battle getting out of the Rockies. I hid him well and drew them off his trail, but he’s old . . . was made more than a century ago, I think. I’ll be back after I feed him. He’s too weak to even make it through the doors now.”
This time the pack leader didn’t sniff the air for a lie, but simply nodded as the group went back to its shared meal and Hunter turned to leave.
“See, that’s what I like,” the leader mumbled between huge bites as he stuffed his mouth with human remains. “Loyalty and priorities. Without that, a man is just a beast.”
The situation had clearly spun out of control. Based on the little bit of sketchy intel Clarissa had shared, New Orleans was poised for a full-scale invasion that would mean another human catastrophe of potentially biblical proportions.
Dr. Xavier Holland kept his gaze out of the military helicopter window as it began to slowly drop to the helipad. In order to get an emergency airlift, the brass had to be nominally informed. Just like he’d had to give some cursory explanation about the need to send in cleanup crews and spin damage control after the MLRS launch that hit a local cemetery. Then the team’s equipment would necessarily have to be moved . . . and he’d have to bring Sasha the latest preternatural advanced weapons systems for scouting Vampire lairs and sealing shut interdimensional demon doors.
The only thing that helped his cause of not revealing the Shadow Wolf cultures, effectively keeping them off radar as a known entity, was the top brass’s desire for plausible deniability. After General Donald Wilkerson’s murder rocked the foundation of the upper echelons all the way to the White House, which threatened to bring on all sorts of congressional and public reviews, he and Sasha and any resources they used were considered strictly Black Ops. If they screwed up, the military would deny giving them authority; if they did well, their funding would silently increase. That was the way it worked. Operation Dog Star was now officially off the record. Actually, he preferred it that way.
Xavier Holland looked across the helipad as the chopper came to a landing. He waited for the craft to stop rocking and for the pilot to give him a thumbs-up. An armed marine got out first and then helped him down. Doctors in white coats stood by stern-looking administrators just inside the rooftop doors, their eyes expectant. He knew what they were worried about. They’d probably already called the CDC wanting to know if, by way of an elderly gunshot patient, the plague, Ebola, bird flu, or some other biohazard had been introduced into their hospital environment, thus New Orleans, in a way that could erupt into a pandemic outbreak. If they only knew.
Keeping his expression stoic as he crossed the helipad, Xavier Holland’s mind raced with alternative approaches. He ne
eded quick access to the patient, Sasha, her squad, and anyone else that might have been near the Were-Shadow contagion. He gripped his briefcase tighter, thinking of Hunter.
“Dr. Holland,” said a tall, well-dressed man in a conservative pin-striped suit, extending his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Joseph Pratt. We’ve heard of your genetics work and would have been pleased to host you under different circumstances,” the hospital president hedged. “But we’ll confront that later. Let me introduce you to Dr. Ira Lutz, head of epidemiology, Dr. Michael Williams, chief of surgery, Dr. Evelyn Sanders, head of our bioresearch department, and Nancy Markland, who handles all media relations and public statements.”
Xavier Holland nodded. “It’s my pleasure. How’s the patient?”
“Stable, for now,” Dr. Williams said crisply as the small, high-powered group watched the chopper lift off. “But he’s far from being out of the woods. He flat-lined twice from blood-loss shock, then his heart kept going into a mild arrhythmia. We had to take half of his right lung and are praying we can save his leg. Time will tell. The bullet passed through his thigh, shattered a portion of the femur, and fragments of that then severed part of the femoral artery. Only quick thinking at the location where he was injured saved that man’s life.”
“The problem is that his body’s white blood cell count is through the roof, as is the donor’s blood, as though fighting off some sort of rare infection.” Dr. Lutz paused to peer at Xavier Holland through thick, Ben Franklin–style glasses. “We don’t know if the patient came in with the unknown contagion, or if it was transferred to him by the donor who has identified herself as Lieutenant Sasha Trudeau.”
“Just what are we dealing with, really?” Dr. Sanders asked, her intense hazel gaze unwavering.
“If there is going to be a quarantine or something that could affect this hospital’s reputation, Doctor, in all fairness, I need to be able to get ahead of the curve to make a public statement.” Nancy Markland folded her arms over her chest after straightening her red linen power suit. “Frankly, we’ve got what looks like a small platoon of guys crawling all over our grounds in fatigues who appear as though they’ve just come back from Iraq with no decontamination or debrief window.”
“I cannot go into the nature of the experiments being conducted at NORAD, but suffice to say that the general public, nor any of the hospital staff, is at risk or in imminent danger.” Xavier Holland glanced around at the frustrated faces and then affixed his gaze to the elevator numbers. His grip tightened on the briefcase he carried that contained the last of the vaccine. “We will corral those men and get them out of plain sight, but it is imperative that I see the patient now.”
She didn’t care that she wasn’t supposed to be in ICU. Having the capacity to blend in and out of the shadows, filch hospital garb, and go wherever she needed to be had its distinct advantages. Right now she had to be at Silver Hawk’s side. Sasha slipped her hand into his, glad that anesthesia would keep away the pain for a little while longer. It all seemed so unfair that a man who’d lived his entire life avoiding the vagaries of experimental modern medicine would now be ripped away from his holistic, tried and proven, natural herbal approaches by a new millennium virus created in a lab . . . something that resulted in his getting shot by his own clan.
For a long while she didn’t move, just studied the lines in his ancient face and noticed the cool, unnaturally waxy feel of his weathered hand against hers. A deep sense of mourning filled her as she looped her amulet over her head and placed it beneath her palm against his chest. Please don’t die. It was a fervent, urgent prayer coming from a woman who wasn’t used to praying. If she hadn’t left him, he wouldn’t have rushed into the pathways unprotected to find his grandson. They could have—should have—gone together.
“Silver Hawk, you will always be Silver Shadow to us. . . . You are so loved and revered, and the clan needs your guidance so desperately right now. It is not your time.” She bent and kissed his forehead, knowing that if this old man crossed over into the permanent Shadow lands, Hunter would die a thousand deaths right behind him no matter what his mental state when she found him. It was bad enough that he blamed himself for the pack deaths, but to add his grandfather’s demise into that loaded equation was more than any person could bear.
“I’ll find Hunter, you just live to see him again,” she whispered and gave Silver Hawk’s hand a gentle squeeze.
Refusing to leave him unprotected but needing to find Doc, she looped the silver chain over his neck and hid it from the hospital staff beneath his gown and the blankets. Woe be unto a thief, she thought, reluctantly leaving her charge.
A man’s soul for a piece of silver? Puh-lease . . . more like some asshole’s face.
Chapter 18
“Long time no talk, Ethan.” Shogun took a slow sip of his beer, allowing the foam to cling to his upper lip before licking it away.
Ethan sat down quickly beside him. “You’re well? All is well? There’s no problem, is there?”
“Can’t a man have a nice lager in a safe house without there being a problem . . . or, did you hear of one?”
“Please, I just . . .”
Shogun’s hard stare made Ethan’s words trail off as his gaze nervously darted around his establishment.
“All right,” Ethan whispered. “Only because it’s so early, and at this hour the walls don’t have ears.”
Shogun sipped his brew, his gaze and senses scanning the environment. “Too early for the Vamps, their succubae and incubi have probably been up late working, since the Conference is in town. Dragon dancers don’t come in till later . . .” He shrugged. “Seen any Shadow packs with an unusual femme fatale with them?”
“I haven’t seen anything, I’ve been working.”
Cradling his beer between his broad hands, Shogun leaned in to the nervous Elf, forcing direct eye contact. “Let me restate it, then. Have you heard of the aura-less she-Shadow that might have come into town with the North American Shadow clan leader?”
“Why?” Ethan whispered, his eyes wide. “She seems like such a nice person—they say, uhmmm . . . I didn’t meet her, but my Margaret did when the she-Shadow brought in her whole pack and even her two familiars to the hospital. One was badly hurt, shot. Then military humans flew in to help.”
“Thank you.” Shogun downed his beer.
“Please,” Ethan whispered. “I know the Werewolves and Shadows don’t get along, but innocent people in the hospital, humans, babies—”
“I didn’t come for a brawl, just a friendly conversation. . . . If battle erupts, that will be because the North American—”
“He didn’t come,” Ethan cut in anxiously, and then covered his mouth with his hand.
Shogun tilted his head, then stood. If the big male hadn’t come yet, then he was on the move, hunting, chasing whatever his pack had run into—that was the way of the wolf. New Orleans was a fallback position for the injured, his female, her familiars. . . . Then what was he after? Vampires? Infected Shadows? Infected Werewolves?
“The Fae are guarding the hospital to be sure there’s no retaliation against the elderly Shadow—there had to be some sort of fight.” Ethan blinked wildly as he spoke and blotted his forehead with an already damp handkerchief. “Please don’t be angry at me, it’s their job to keep humans unaware . . . UCE edict—and big, nasty fights tend to make humans ask questions.”
“Your bar has my pledge of protection.” As Shogun began walking, a familiar female scent made him stop and abruptly turn.
“Still sniffing after that Shadow bitch?” his sister snarled, and loped over to him from the far end of the bar. “I thought after the bucket of cold water to break you two up that would be enough!”
“Lei, don’t start. Lower your voice. I’m not in the mood for—”
She grabbed his arm and spoke in a hissing whisper between her teeth. “She’s a Shadow.”
“And you are way out of line,” he said, snatching hi
s arm from her grasp but keeping his voice low.
“I raised you—so how can I ever be out of line?”
Pure hatred marred his sister’s beautiful face, turning her normally dark, exotic eyes to pits of rage. Her pretty mouth was now a tight line and her creamy, almond hue was flushed. Narrowing her gaze, she flipped a long swath of blue-black silken hair over her shoulder and leaned in closer to keep their heated debate private.
“Our parents made the personal sacrifice to take the faction oath to become stronger through demon blood. They did that so you and I didn’t have to. They did it because Vampires were hunting us to extinction while our so-called Shadow Wolf cousins watched and sometimes helped. And now you want to bed one of them? Are you insane?”
Shogun pulled away and looked at her without apology. “Their decision to take the demon infection was insane. It was a bargain made with devils. That was their choice. It was never mine, or the rest of the clan’s. You can cling to the old ways if you’d like, but the world is changing, getting smaller—and there must be another way. Brute force no longer works. Negotiations, alliances are necessary. Force will one day cause our extinction.”
“It is because of whom they were that you are who you’ve become—clan leader of Southeast Asia.”
“No,” he said in a low, lethal voice. “I became what I am through learning the pure way of the wolf and meeting every challenge since the time of my alpha rise. They did nothing but make me have to overcome the shame of their legacy.”
His sister’s glare raked him from head to toe. “I never thought I would live to see the day when my very own brother, who I’d raised like my son, would turn his back on the old ways to dishonor his parents’ death. It is bad enough that you lust for a she-Shadow . . . but to select one from a North American pack—the same pack that killed them . . . murdered them, Shogun. I am ashamed to call you brother. Continue in this and you will be dead to me.”